


spiral

by doomcake



Series: Across the Universe [4]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, Gangsters, Hurt/Comfort, Italian Mafia, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male Slash, Pseudo-quantum physics, Violence, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:08:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The feeling doesn’t last long—one week, maybe two, after they return to Tokyo, Yamamoto begins to notice the small, subtle things. Like the way Gokudera sometimes pretends to sleep to cover up his insomnia, or how he flinches every time a door slams nearby.</i><br/> </p><p>Yamamoto's seemingly endless patience wears thin and begins coming apart at the seams when he deals with Gokudera's emotional and physical wounds. He feels like he's a blind man leading a cripple straight off a cliff.</p><p>[Part of an ongoing, post-TYL divergent AU arc]</p>
            </blockquote>





	spiral

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes.
> 
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> \--
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> 
> Another fic that's a few years old now. Still migrating these over... much slower than I planned, lol.
> 
>  
> 
> Part 3/? of "Across the Universe" series
> 
>  **PLEASE NOTE:** This story is part of a prequel arc to "dive" (see the "first" part in this series--AO3 doesn't let us have a "part 0"). Not sure how this might be as a stand-alone fic, so I would recommend reading the previous sections leading up to this story.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:** mafia-related violence, strong language (my Gokudera tends to be pretty foul-mouthed), implied torture  & its aftermath, mild M/M sexual content, lots of hurt!Gokudera, angsttttt.
> 
> RECOMMENDED LISTENING (part 1):  
> ♪ [freedom fighters](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HtlLyLUrrIg) { two steps from hell }

**« spiral »**

> It’s odd to find such a strong Russian mafia foothold in the middle of Milan, but Yamamoto now understands from experience how these kinds of international mafia relations can form. The basement hallways of the Solntsevskaya Bratva-owned shopping center are narrow and poorly lit and stink of stale air, cigarette smoke and alcohol. Yamamoto has a feeling that they’re monitored by a video surveillance system as well, but the long shadows on the ceiling make it difficult to see any cameras.
> 
> Not that it matters, since he’s hardly being subtle here—he’s got a long string of dead bodies left in his wake, flesh spliced open with a sharp blade, spattered with streaks of blood that paint the bare walls in scarlet. But the realization that he might be putting Gokudera’s life in more danger hits him now, and he picks up his pace from a cautious crawl to a panicked sprint.
> 
> A sharp cry of pain echoes from around the furthest bend, and Yamamoto’s heart feels like it’s going to explode out of his chest. He follows the voice around the corner to find a door with a small square window at eye-level. He can see several figures moving past the window, and all he can think is _I can’t let him die here_ as he tosses caution to the wind and slams into the door, nearly throwing it off its hinges.
> 
> The six men behind the door scream at him in Russian that Yamamoto doesn’t understand, but Yamamoto is already slicing through the neck of the nearest mobster with practiced ease. One of the other men grabs for a semi-automatic rifle leaning against the wall; by the time he brings the weapon up, Yamamoto already cuts through two more of the rifleman’s allies before turning and cutting through the barrel of the rifle. The man only has a split second to gape at the broken weapon in shock before he is impaled on Yamamoto’s blade.
> 
> Four down, two to go. Yamamoto jerks his blade free and watches as the man slides down the wall, eyes open wide in shock as his mouth burbles out his last few breaths. Instinctive danger prickles along Yamamoto’s spine, and he whirls and nearly gets a knife to his face. With a muttered curse, he twists his head to the side barely in time, though he feels the edge of the short blade scrape against his chin and leave a burning line of fire in its wake. With a growl, Yamamoto ducks the man’s next swing and lunges, catching the man’s stomach with his shoulder and feels a grim sense of victory as he hears his enemy’s breath forced out in a pained gasp. It’s the man’s last breath as Yamamoto wastes no time in stabbing his sword through the man’s neck.
> 
> “You should have been better at picking your enemies,” Yamamoto hisses in the man’s ear as he dies.
> 
> Yamamoto pulls his sword free once more and lets the man drop before he takes a look around the dark and bloodied room. He hadn’t paid much attention to the brightly-lit room on the other side of a wide window separating the two, and as he looks through the window, his breath catches in his throat.
> 
> The last of the men that had been in the dark room now stands in the brightly-lit space, using a slumped, bloodied and dirty figure tied to a chair as a body shield. The seated figure’s hair is filthy and shaggy, but it still retains a distinct silvery color. Yamamoto’s heart jumps to his throat and catches his breath as he realizes who he’s looking at.
> 
> The man’s eyes are wide as they search the window, but Yamamoto realizes that it’s a one-way mirror, and the man can’t see him. It suddenly occurs to the man that he can’t hear anything more from the other room, and he shrieks something in Russian—when he doesn’t get an answer, his face curls into a snarl and he grabs a fistful of Gokudera’s limp bangs with one hand, jerking it back to expose the neck as he holds a sharp blade to the Storm Guardian’s pale, bruised throat.
> 
> Gokudera’s face is littered in cuts and red marks and smeared filth, one eye blackened and swollen shut and a splotch of blood smudged at the corner of his mouth. His good eye is barely open, just enough for Yamamoto to see sharp, _angry_ green beneath the lid.
> 
> They hadn’t broken him. Yamamoto’s chest aches as he realizes that Gokudera refused to be taken to pieces by these guys.
> 
> _I’m going to get you out of here_ , Yamamoto mouths, even though he knows Gokudera can’t see him.
> 
> “I know who you are!” the man holding the knife to Gokudera’s throat. He speaks heavily-accented and broken Japanese, a strong indication that he does indeed know who he’s dealing with. “Take step closer, I kill him!”
> 
> The man is looking wildly at the window, but it’s apparent that he can’t even see who he’s dealing with. Yamamoto wonders if the glass is bullet proof as his eyes fall on a spare rifle leaning against the wall. He decides not to risk it, and instead takes a step towards the door. He looks back into the room just in time to see Gokudera’s chapped and cracked lips twist into a pained smirk.
> 
> ‘Take him down,’ Gokudera mouths with a red-daubed grin. He winces as the man behind him jerks up on his bangs viciously.
> 
> Red filters into Yamamoto’s vision, but just as he kicks down the door and charges, the man’s knife slices deeply into Gokudera’s throat and sprays red across the room—
> 
> _Wait! Wait, no, that’s not how it goes_ , Yamamoto’s mind screams at him. _That’s not how it goes!_  
> 

_Hayato!_

The scream is on Yamamoto’s lips, but he doesn’t have enough air to support it as his eyes snap open. Several shaking breaths later, he realizes he’s staring up at the shadows across the ceiling, the dark hallways of the mall replaced with the cushion of a mattress beneath his back. Taking a shuddering breath, he rolls over to check on Gokudera—only to find that the other twin bed is empty, and he sits up so fast that it makes his head hurt.

Before the adrenaline has a chance to pull Yamamoto directly into a panic, he hears coughing and a pained groan coming from behind the closed bathroom door, which is outlined in a thin line of light. Brow creasing in worry, he flings the covers aside and gets out of the bed, walking silently over to the bathroom and knocking quietly on the door.

“Hayato?” he says softly, leaning against the door with his hand on the knob. He carefully turns it and presses it open only an inch. “Are you okay?”

Before Gokudera can answer him, there’s another round of coughing and the unmistakable sound of someone heaving. Yamamoto doesn’t hesitate to push the door the rest of the way open just in time to see Gokudera slumped on the floor next to the toilet with his face leaning over the seat, and—with another pained heave—Gokudera promptly empties his stomach contents into the water.

“Damn it,” Yamamoto hisses as he rushes over to Gokudera, holding his hair out of his face for him as he continues throwing up into the toilet.

As the heaves slowly bring up less and less, Yamamoto uses his free hand to rub comforting circles against Gokudera’s back. After a beat, Gokudera wipes a shaky forearm across his lips and leans back into Yamamoto’s chest, breathing heavily through his nose. Yamamoto lets his bangs fall back into his face, settling for simply holding him instead.

“Fuck,” Gokudera groans.

“Here, let’s get you cleaned up,” Yamamoto says as helps Gokudera to his feet and acts as a crutch as they move to the sink.

Grabbing a washcloth off the towel rack behind him, Yamamoto wets it with warm water from the tap, but before he can wipe Gokudera’s face with it, Gokudera snatches it from him and does it himself. He then takes a mouthful of water from the sink and gargles with it before spitting it back out. When he wobbles on his feet, Yamamoto steadies him with a hand, and notices the crutch leaning against the wall behind him as he looks in the mirror’s reflection.

“I fucking hate pain killers,” Gokudera grumbles as he glares at his haggard reflection.

“I can give Shamal a call to see if we can come up with something else,” Yamamoto offers.

“Fuck that bastard, he probably won’t even answer the phone.” Taking a wobbling step towards the bathroom door, he winces as he puts too much weight on his bad knee. Yamamoto snags the crutch from the wall and settles Gokudera with it as he turns to flush the toilet, and freezes.

“I don’t think it’s the pain meds,” he says worriedly. “Hayato, you’re puking up blood—”

Gokudera turns to say something irritable back at him but stumbles, knees suddenly giving out from under him. With a curse, Yamamoto grabs for him and barely manages to break his fall. Gokudera’s skin suddenly looks ghostly pale in the bathroom light, and a fine sheen of sweat breaks out on his upper lip.

“F-Fuck,” he groans again. “I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Yamamoto says, trying hard not to let the panic seep into his voice as he pulls Gokudera’s arm up over his shoulder and braces him upright with a hand around his waist.

He lets the crutch clatter on the bathroom floor without a second glance as he helps Gokudera back to his bed. He doesn’t like the pallor of Gokudera’s skin, or the warmth he can feel radiating from the Storm Guardian. Once he has Gokudera propped up on pillows and settled with a blanket pulled up to his chest, Yamamoto grabs for his cell phone on the dresser next to his bed and pulls up Shamal’s phone number, Gokudera’s protests be damned.

 _“Fina, my love, you’re late to the party!”_ There’s the distinct sound of feminine giggling in the background as Shamal answers in flirty Italian. Yamamoto grimaces as he hears one of the girls moan Shamal’s name lewdly.

“Shamal, it’s Yamamoto,” he replies in Japanese. “I think Gokudera’s vomiting blood.”

 _“… Sorry, I think you have the wrong number,”_ Shamal says light-heartedly (again, in Italian) and hangs up.

Yamamoto blinks and stares at his phone with a frown. He isn’t quite sure if Shamal was messing with him, or if he should call one of the other Vongola doctors in the area, but after looking back over at Gokudera again, he has half a mind to call Shamal right back and yell at him.

Then his cell phone rings, and he nearly drops it in surprise. Without even looking at the caller ID, he flips it open and answers it.

 _“What color is it?”_ Shamal’s voice, now dead serious, is speaking back in Japanese.

He blinks. “… What?”

 _“What color is the blood in the vomit? Bright red? Dull red? Black?”_ Shamal sounds almost impatient. _“This had better be worth interrupting my long-awaited party, kid.”_

“Oh!” Yamamoto rubs his forehead. “It’s dark red, and Gokudera was feeling really woozy afterwards.”

 _“Shit.”_ Shamal sighs loudly, and Yamamoto’s heart pounds in sudden worry.

“Is… is it bad?” he asks hesitantly.

 _“Yes and no, but I wouldn’t worry too much,”_ Shamal replies. _“He doesn’t react well to his painkillers, which is why he’s woozy. Was he coughing beforehand?”_

Yamamoto thinks about it, eyes widening. “Yes, he was.”

_“His body might still be trying to clear excess blood out of his damaged lung. If he swallowed it, it might’ve made him throw up. If he’s puking bright red liquid, that’s when you really should worry.”_

Yamamoto relaxes a little at the knowledge that Gokudera isn’t bleeding internally somewhere, but it still worries him. “Are you sure you think he’s well enough to be out of the hospital already?”

Shamal snorts. _“_ You _try getting him to stay in a hospital once he realizes he’s mobile—he’s more comfortable where he’s at.”_

 _Good point_ , Yamamoto notes.

_“Just keep an eye on him, make sure he rests a lot, hydrates, eats light meals, takes his medicine, stays off the goddamned knee, and he should be fine.”_

Shamal makes it sound so simple, but it’s relieving to hear anyway. Yamamoto pauses, then says honestly, “Thank you.”

A grunt, and then, _“Next time you call me, that brat better had be dying. Or female.”_ Shamal hangs up abruptly.

Yamamoto smiles at the doctor’s stubborn nature as he snaps his phone shut. As he looks at Gokudera again, the smile melts into a concerned frown when he approaches the bed.

“Hayato?” he asks quietly. “You still awake?”

Gokudera mumbles something and shifts, but doesn’t respond. _Probably for the best_ , Yamamoto thinks as he presses the back of his hand against Gokudera’s forehead. It’s a little warm, but nothing like the fever he was sporting when Yamamoto first brought him back. But that’s something Yamamoto doesn’t really want to think about right now.

Part of him wishes they were back in Japan, in their plush apartment where he feels at home and more capable of taking good care of Gokudera. Here, stuck in Italy until Gokudera’s in good enough health to fly, Yamamoto feels a little helpless. Especially since he can never really tell when Shamal can be relied on—the man clearly cares for his former pupil despite his vehement denial, but at the same time, Shamal is a selfish creature of habit.

The real problem is that Yamamoto has never been so terrified in his life. When he was searching the countryside for Gokudera, all he could think about was finding him and bringing him home. The method didn’t matter so much. Now that he has Gokudera back, all he can think about is the number of bodies he left behind, how those might come back to hurt Vongola. The Solntsevskaya Brotherhood is notoriously ruthless, and it’s hard not to think about how they targeted Gokudera, and how they could so easily target him again. He also can’t help but worry about how Gokudera is so… _damaged_ , but Gokudera refuses to speak about any of it. Not that he should be expected to talk about something so atrocious immediately after, but Yamamoto _knows_ Gokudera—he knows that Gokudera isn’t going to be very open about what happened to him.

“Don’t scare me like that anymore, okay?” Yamamoto whispers as he brushes stray hair away from Gokudera’s pale face. “I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I let you slip away again.”

 

 

 

 

Yamamoto is exhausted by the time he stumbles back through their apartment door. It takes a lot more brainpower than he typically has to use just to figure out what groceries are what in Italian—hell, he can’t even find half of the ingredients he’s used to here in Italy—and he has a headache just from _grocery shopping_. He’s glad he had the foresight to take care of _famiglia_ business before going shopping, since that mostly involves paperwork (which is mostly in Japanese these days, thanks to Tsuna’s heritage). He feels a little better knowing that Tsuna is aware that Giacomo is a traitor, and that the Italian branch of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood is no longer on neutral terms with the Vongola family. It’s an unsettling thought, but at least there’s a sense of awareness about the situation now.

Shutting the door behind him with his foot, Yamamoto works his way out of his shoes with practiced ease while balancing more than an armful of groceries. Looking around the small living area, he doesn’t see Gokudera and assumes that maybe he’s in the bedroom sleeping again. Setting the groceries down on the kitchen counter, Yamamoto goes to check on Gokudera—it’s the first full day he’s been gone since Gokudera was released from the hospital.

When he doesn’t see anyone in the bedroom or the bathroom, fear begins to claw its way into his chest, but then he catches a hint of a familiar scent drifting in through the open bedroom window.

 _Hayato’s favorite Italian cigarettes._ He knows that smell anywhere, and he follows it to the open door leading to the porch off the side of the office area. Gokudera is leaning against the railing, his crutch propped up next to him as he stares out over the balcony and takes a deep drag on the cigarette perched between his lips. Yamamoto tries to see where Gokudera’s staring, but realizes on a second glance that Gokudera’s looking somewhere that Yamamoto won’t be able to see.

“Hayato?” he says, knocking on the porch’s sliding door frame. “Hey.”

Gokudera starts, as if coming back to the present. He turns and looks over his shoulder as he blows out a lungful of smoke, tapping ashes over the side of the balcony as he hops on his good leg until he’s able to turn and face Yamamoto.

“Hey,” Gokudera replies. “You’re back.” He squints up at the sun with a frown. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Time for dinner soon. It’s a little after five,” Yamamoto says with a smile. “How long have you been out here?”

Gokudera snorts, takes another drag on his cigarette and exhales the smoke out through his nose in the process. “Not a clue,” he says with a light cough. “A while.”

At the cough, Yamamoto’s smile disappears as he looks at the cigarette with a pointed stare. He can’t shake the image of Gokudera throwing up blood, can’t forget that Gokudera’s lungs are still healing from a very serious injury.

“Are you sure you should be smoking already?” he blurts suddenly.

“You sure you should be smiling already?” Gokudera quips back, indicating the gauze-covered injury on Yamamoto’s chin with a wave of his cigarette.

Yamamoto chuckles mirthlessly, but says nothing back.

Gokudera savors the next drag before he slowly lets it out between his lips, the smoke forming a thin, delicate column as the wind catches it and disperses it. He shoots Yamamoto a challenging look, but sighs and drops the rest of the butt on the ground, reaching for his crutch and putting it out with the end of it.

“Probably not,” he admits, finally answering. “But what the hell; the patch is driving me nuts, anyway. And don’t give me that look, idiot—that’s the only one I’ve had all day.”

Settling the crutch under his armpit, Gokudera hobbles his way back into the apartment, wincing as he favors his injured knee. Yamamoto follows after him, helping him settle on the couch with his knee propped up despite a few mild protests, and then goes to the kitchen to start working on making dinner. _Something light,_ Shamal had said before.

By the time Yamamoto finishes making a hearty soup, Gokudera’s asleep. After pulling a blanket over his charge, Yamamoto covers the dinner up for when Gokudera wakes to take his pain medicine.

Everything seems so _normal_ all of a sudden, that the realization catches Yamamoto by surprise, and he pauses. Gokudera isn’t nearly as boisterous or fussy as he usually acts while recovering from injury; he isn’t pushing himself as hard, or making his displeasure as blatant. He simply seems to be rolling with the punches—and while this kind of change in attitude would be good news for anyone else, this is _Gokudera_. And it makes Yamamoto even more concerned about the mental state of his lover.

 _One of these days_ , Yamamoto promises himself, _I’m going to find out what happened. What_ really _happened._

 

 

 

 

> Yamamoto’s hands ache from where the wires cut into his fingers, but he’s pleased when the engine of the car finally roars to life. Apparently, he had been paying attention when Gokudera tried to teach him how to hotwire a car. But instead of bemused praise coming from Gokudera, all he hears is wheezing, pained breath. Gokudera is unconscious, slumped against the passenger side window of the older—but spacious—sedan parked in the far corner of the shopping center’s parking garage. It's the first car he comes across with unlocked doors, and Yamamoto sincerely hopes that the plates aren’t easily traceable.
> 
> Shuffling around to sit properly in the driver’s seat, Yamamoto closes the door and pulls the car out of the spot, quickly directing it towards the garage exit (and fervently hoping nobody else is aware of what’s going on just yet). He releases a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding once he’s just outside of the mall’s campus, unchallenged.
> 
> That relief fades the instant he sees the black luxury sedan waiting for him at the nearest stoplight. Yamamoto isn’t sure what it is that tips the car off—most likely the stereotype of a nondescript black sedan that most Mafioso are guilty of employing, or it’s the tinted windows that give it away—but the second he sees an opening, he stomps on the gas pedal and squeals out around the nearest corner.
> 
> Predictably, the black sedan runs a red light to turn and follow him.
> 
> Yamamoto clenches his teeth, because no matter how long he stared at maps of Milan and its surroundings and came up with a route and method for running away once he got Gokudera back, there’s no way to prepare for a full-blown chase. His enemy has the home team advantage, and Yamamoto’s carrying delicate cargo.
> 
> A quick glance over at Gokudera makes him start—Gokudera’s looking back at him with pain-clouded, but determined, eyes.
> 
> “P-Pay attention to where… you’re driving, idiot,” Gokudera says, but he struggles so much for the breath to speak that it hurts to listen to.
> 
> “Don’t talk,” he says seriously. He puts a hand over Gokudera’s when he reaches for the seatbelt buckle. “And stay buckled in—this is going to get rough.”
> 
> “H-Hurts,” Gokudera wheezes.
> 
> “Sorry.”
> 
> Yamamoto looks up into the rearview mirror, muttering choice words under his breath when he sees that the black sedan is hot on his tail. But as they fly past a long string of tall buildings, another black sedan flies out into the intersection and nearly t-bones into Yamamoto’s stolen vehicle. Quick reflexes are all that saves the car from getting pummeled; he quickly spins the wheel to get out of the way and instead, the new intruder clips Yamamoto’s bumper and sends them spinning. It’s some kind of act of fortune that they don’t crash into any obstacles once Yamamoto regains control of the car.
> 
> Breathing heavily, Yamamoto looks back into his rearview mirror to see not two, but three identical sedans crowding the intersection. The doors on the nearest one fly open, and suit-clad men with semi-automatics pour out of the car. With a smirk, Yamamoto realizes they’re not taking him seriously enough, and that’s something he can use to his advantage.
> 
> Dropping the car into a different gear, Yamamoto looks ahead and finds a small opening—and steps on the accelerator to take it before it vanishes. The shriek of squealing tires nearly drowns out the popping of gunfire in his direction, and he can hear some of the bullets ricocheting off the thick metal of the car’s frame as he drives off.
> 
> It doesn’t take long for the triplets to start catching up—he’s racing an older, middle-class boat against three luxury sedans, after all—but with the driving skills they’ve shown him so far, Yamamoto feels like he might be able to pull this off.
> 
> A gunshot shatters the rear window of the car, and Yamamoto ducks out of instinct (and sees Gokudera flinching as he slides further down into the seat). Maybe not so easy to pull this off, because they’re unarmed save for a giant metal car, his handgun lodged down in a holster at his ankle (inaccessible), and a sword—and Gokudera always used to tell him that swords were absolutely useless in car chases. At this point, Gokudera’s right.
> 
> Another gunshot clips the bumper, and Yamamoto realizes they’re aiming for his tires. Jerking the wheel side-to-side in a zig-zagging motion, Yamamoto nearly hits cars on the other side of the road as he works to evade the Bratva’s line of fire.
> 
> He does a pretty good job of it too, until it occurs to him that he’s hearing Gokudera heave in the seat next to him. The split second he takes to look over at Gokudera worriedly costs him—a bullet flies through the destroyed back window and clips his arm, taking him by surprise as he careens towards an oncoming truck. Eyes widening, he ignores the loud honk and steers around the truck and immediately flies around the corner just beyond the truck, still driving on the wrong side of the road.
> 
> A ruckus of horns and squealing tires and crunching metal behind him tell him he managed to pull off the maneuver quite handily—so maybe it wasn’t so unfortunate, even though his shoulder’s burning where the bullet scraped past him.
> 
> Yamamoto then takes the opportunity to look over at Gokudera, who glares back at him with a green expression before promptly throwing up all over the floor of the passenger’s side of the car.
> 
> Before Yamamoto can do anything about it, he catches site of one of the three sedans persistently catching up to him, and he curses. From the passenger seat, the retching is replaced with harsh, uneven wheezing. A quick glance makes Yamamoto’s breath catch in his throat, because Gokudera is slumped and barely conscious as he just tries to breathe—and it’s something Yamamoto can do nothing about.
> 
> “Hang in there, Hayato,” he murmurs as he desperately looks around for a different route. “I’m going to get us out of here.”

 

 

 

 

_“Is he okay? I mean… really okay?”_

Tsuna sounds so worried that Yamamoto nearly cracks and tells him everything—all his own unvoiced fears and concerns included—but he knows that Tsuna wouldn’t idly sit by if he knew the whole truth. With Giacomo still on the loose, Yamamoto isn’t sure how secure they are here in Italy, even if they’re in solidified Vongola territory.

_I’m feel like I’m losing him._

“He’s doing much better,” Yamamoto replies instead. “We had a little… scare the other night, but otherwise Shamal is confident that he’s on the mend.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line, and a few beats of silence. _“I heard he was being… interrogated. Do… Are you sure you don’t want me to come out there?”_

_Please. Maybe you can help me find him again._

“I don’t think it’s safe here yet.”

_“But doesn’t that mean it’s not safe for you guys either?”_

Tsuna has a point; the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood hasn’t retaliated (yet), but Yamamoto doesn’t want to stick around long enough for them to try while they’re still in Italy. Yamamoto suspects that the infamous Russians have been secretly allied with Giacomo’s _real_ famiglia for a while, and that both have ties to the beginnings of Millefiore. In any case, Tsuna’s concerns aren’t unfounded.

“Probably not, but I don’t think Gokudera is healed enough to travel very far just yet,” Yamamoto says carefully.

A worried hum, and Tsuna is quiet for a few moments before he asks, _“Has he said anything?”_

Even though Yamamoto knew this question would come up, he still doesn’t like having to answer it, because he knows he’s going to have to lie (a little). _Only enough for me to know I want to go back and kill those goddamned Russians all over again._

“No,” he says. “He only said enough to make it clear that he didn’t want to discuss it.”

The following pause leaves Yamamoto feeling nervous, the silence making his ears ring from straining to catch any hint of what Tsuna is thinking. Really, though, Yamamoto feels more worried that he isn’t doing enough to ground Gokudera—to make sure Gokudera is not only physically sound, but mentally sound as well. He kind of feels guilty for not pursuing the matter further, but he’s no psychiatrist. He’s afraid he might do more harm than good; it would devastate him if Gokudera closed up more and pushed him even further away.

 _“Bring him home as soon as you can,”_ Tsuna says, sounding incredibly tired—and sad. _“And keep looking for Giacomo. I think I want to have a few words with that man.”_

The underlying threat sends chills down Yamamoto’s spine (never mind that the threat is hardly directed at him). He grins wickedly at the thought of Tsuna’s form of punishment, but even just imagining Giacomo in any way, shape, or form makes Yamamoto see red.

“If there’s anything left of him by the time I’m done with him,” Yamamoto says coldly.

Tsuna snorts softly, then says, _“Keep me updated.”_

“Of course.”

The line goes dead.

 

 

 

 

> Yamamoto paces outside the makeshift surgery—Shamal’s spare bedroom, as Shamal was the only person he had contact information for that might be able to help them. The doctor had shown his usual reluctance in agreeing to treat Gokudera, but one look at Yamamoto’s eyes, and the doctor seemed to change his mind (or he’d already made up his mind ahead of time).
> 
> A part of Yamamoto wonders what the doctor saw—the other part of Yamamoto doesn’t want to know. He’s in a dangerous mood, and has a feeling that the next person who talks to him that isn’t Shamal might see the sharp end of his blade all too quickly.
> 
> Rubbing his forehead with his hand, he realizes then that he hasn’t slept in at least seventy-two hours. Most of those were spent tracking down the mall in Milan, and then shaking loose all pursuers once he managed to reclaim Gokudera from their hands; some of them were spent trying to find Shamal’s current location, and then a few minutes were spared for tending the deep, bleeding cut on his chin with butterfly tape. The last three hours—four? Yamamoto doesn’t remember exactly how long he’s been here—have been spent pacing.
> 
> His adrenaline reserves are running on fumes at this point, and he’s suddenly afraid that he’s going to snap and regret it. He just hopes he ends up taking his anger out on Shamal (who can quite handily defend himself) rather than one of Shamal’s call girls.
> 
> The doorknob turns, and Yamamoto starts, taking a deep breath as he quickly composes himself before Shamal fully opens the door. He looks haggard with exhaustion—like he aged ten years in the last four hours. He has blood on his hands, which he wipes subconsciously on his red-spattered lab coat. He looks up at Yamamoto seriously and sighs, sliding a cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it in one smooth motion. Yamamoto grits his teeth until Shamal looks him straight in the eyes.
> 
> “The brat’s alive,” he says, taking a long drag. Yamamoto releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “But you really should’ve taken him to a proper hospital. I’m not going to sugar-coat this for you, but he’s really in bad shape. They shot him and damaged a lung, and then did a really shitty repair job of it—I don’t know which is worse: the original injury, or the half-assed patch job. I really can’t do much more for him with the equipment I have on hand. And that’s the least of our worries, really—he’s been beaten to hell and back, malnourished, dehydrated, and—”
> 
> Yamamoto’s knees give out beneath him; the last half of what Shamal’s saying barely registers in his mind after he hears that Gokudera is still alive.
> 
> “Christ, don’t turn into a fucking pansy on me,” Shamal scoffs, but the tone lacks a sharp edge. “He’ll be okay, given time and proper medical care—O-Oi! Stop crying—you’re a man, aren’t you?”
> 
> Yamamoto brushes his fingertips along his cheeks and is surprised to find them wet; he didn’t even realize he was that upset. But now that he notices, it’s like a dam breaks, and suddenly he can’t stop.
> 
> He’s grateful that Shamal leaves him be without another word, and even more grateful when Shamal takes care of arranging a Vongola-allied hospital bed for Gokudera even before Yamamoto has a chance to recompose himself. While they wait for the Vongola medics to arrive, Shamal replaces the butterfly tape on Yamamoto’s chin with a couple of stitches (“I’ll pretend to not notice your lack of feminine assets this time,” Shamal justifies).
> 
> Gokudera has a long healing process ahead of him, Shamal tells Yamamoto as the ambulance comes to retrieve Gokudera (later, the hospital doctors echo the same sentiment). It never goes spoken aloud, but the advice comes through loud and clear: just have patience.
> 
> Yamamoto laughs when he realizes what Shamal’s telling him—obviously, the man doesn’t understand anything about their relationship. For Gokudera, Yamamoto has all the patience in the world.

 

 

 

 

“I want to go back to Japan,” Gokudera says one morning. His eyes are serious as he locks stares with Yamamoto. “I need… I have things I need to take care of.”

Yamamoto purses his lips; this doesn’t come as any surprise. He notices when Gokudera gets fidgety, restless—when he sneaks out for a smoke more than once a day. (Gokudera must think Yamamoto doesn’t notice.) There isn’t much more he can do about it other than wait it out, wait for Gokudera’s wounds to heal, wait for medical clearance, and hope that he can find a way to ensure that Gokudera doesn’t make his condition any worse than it is.

“You’re not cleared to fly yet,” Yamamoto reminds him gently.

“Fuck what that bastard Shamal says—he never comes here to check, so how am I supposed to get clearance from him?” Gokudera crosses his arms obstinately.

Yamamoto presses his fingers to his forehead. “Because,” he replies, “your lung isn’t ready to handle the kind of stress traveling would put on it.” When Gokudera opens his mouth to protest, Yamamoto cuts him off with a gentle finger on his lips. “And I’m inclined to agree with Shamal; it was only a few nights ago that you were vomiting blood.”

“Not fresh blood, you idiot,” Gokudera snaps, but he relaxes his arms, slumping into the couch with an ill-concealed wince. “It really just… it’s really frustrating to be stuck here, especially since the Tenth is in Japan with that lawn-headed idiot and three other unreliable Guardians.”

“Lambo isn’t unreliable,” Yamamoto points out patiently.

“Well, not so much anymore, but he still isn’t much help!”

With a sigh, Yamamoto says, “I know you worry about the Tenth, but you should worry about yourself a little bit, too.” His hand brushes against Gokudera’s cheek (it’s still mottled with remnant marks and fading bruises) as he searches Gokudera’s eyes seriously. “Don’t you understand? You almost didn’t make it. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t been able to save you.”

Gokudera looks away, pulling back from Yamamoto’s hand. “You shouldn’t have gone after me,” he says with a scowl (Yamamoto can’t help but feel as though Gokudera’s staring at the bandaged cut on his chin). “You should’ve stayed in Japan with the Tenth, like I told you to.”

Yamamoto retracts his hand as if it had been stung. He remembers the night he left for Italy—the empty bed next to him, the worrying, brief text message on his cell phone ( _from Gokudera’s cell_ ) on his way to the airport, the sinking in his gut when he realized something had gone horribly wrong. He begins to doubt; he wonders if maybe he’s the only one thinking they have a relationship. The thought _hurts_ , wrapping around his chest and squeezing until he doesn’t think he can breathe.

“They were going to kill you,” Yamamoto replies, his tone having more edge than he intends. “And you just wanted me to sit by and do _nothing_? Twiddle my thumbs and smile, hanging out with Tsuna hoping that you’ll somehow manage to come home by yourself?”

“Maybe that would’ve been for the best,” Gokudera says, glaring up at Yamamoto. And Yamamoto almost believes him— _almost_ , if not for the sudden flash of panic in Gokudera’s eyes. The look disappears instantly with a hardened resolve, but Yamamoto knows it’s still there, underneath.

Yamamoto grits his teeth and cups both his hands around Gokudera’s cheeks, pulling him closer and looking him straight in the eyes. “You’re a horrible liar, Hayato,” he says evenly. “You’re just upset because you think you failed and put the Tenth in danger.”

“What the fuck would you know about failure—” Gokudera’s squirming, trying to pull away again, but Yamamoto holds him still.

“I know enough,” Yamamoto replies, smiling mirthlessly. “And if you think that simply getting caught counts as failing, you’re dead wrong.”

Gokudera grabs Yamamoto’s hands and pulls them off his face forcibly. “It wasn’t just that!” he snaps. “They… they managed to get something else of mine. Something important—and if I don’t get them back, Vongola could be in serious danger. Not just the Tenth— _everyone_. And if you don’t think that counts as failure, then you’re a goddamned fool.”

Yamamoto blinks several times, realizing that Gokudera didn’t notice it—his gaze moves to the stack of papers rolled up, leaning against the wall next to Yamamoto’s bed. Part of him debates on producing them for Gokudera, because the moment Gokudera realizes he has his projects back in hand, Yamamoto knows he won’t waste any time getting back to work on them. On the other hand, he knows that lying to Gokudera would only hurt him more later.

“You’re talking about your project plans, aren’t you?” Yamamoto sighs.

If Gokudera flinches, Yamamoto pretends not to notice. “Those projects were the only things keeping me alive, idiot,” Gokudera says darkly, glowering. “They couldn’t decrypt G-script, which is the only reason they made sure I wasn’t going to die on them so easily.” He gestures vaguely to his back. Yamamoto doesn’t need to see the healing wound to remember the jagged remnants of the badly-repaired injury.

“They weren’t planning on keeping you that way for long,” Yamamoto says evenly.

He gets a snort in reply. “Probably not—I don’t think they were expecting you so soon.” Then Gokudera’s brow furrows—the way it does when he’s thinking seriously about something, Yamamoto realizes. Gokudera looks back up at him again after a moment, still frowning. “How did you know where to find me when you did?”

This time, it’s Yamamoto’s turn to frown. “Don’t you remember? You sent me an e-mail letting me know where you were—”

At Gokudera’s puzzled look, Yamamoto’s sentence trails off. The gears suddenly click painfully into place, and his eyes widen in realization.

“That wasn’t you,” he says. A short, mirthless laugh bubbles over his lips. “You wouldn’t have had your phone on you at that point.”

Gokudera’s eyes widen briefly as he comes to the same conclusion, then he narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth with a hiss. “ _Giacomo_. That son of a bitch—”

“They knew I was coming. They just didn’t realize I was already on my way to Italy by the time I got the message, which is why they weren’t prepared—”

“Jesus Christ, you moron—you walked head-first into a trap by yourself without telling the Tenth—”

Yamamoto cuts him off with a hardened glance. “You do realize this means Giacomo somehow found out I was on my way there. He wasn’t there when I… when I finally found you. So he either wanted me to find you, or he wasn’t ready for me when I got there.”

Gokudera is silent as he mulls that new thought around in his mind. While Gokudera processes the thought, Yamamoto sighs and reaches for the blueprints.

“I think he still wanted something out of these,” Yamamoto says, holding them out for Gokudera. “Maybe you’re right; maybe these really are why you’re still alive.” He hardens his stare. “You need to be more careful—no. _I_ need to be more careful, because I’d die before I let this happen to you again.”

Gokudera doesn’t seem to be listening to him, and instead is staring down at the roll of papers in his hands. For two confused blinks, Gokudera doesn’t seem to realize what he’s looking at until he begins unrolling the papers. His breath noticeably catches as his eyes widen, and he suddenly looks up at Yamamoto with a vulnerability Yamamoto hasn’t seen in what feels like ages.

“How… how did you get these?” Gokudera asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought they’d taken them for good.” He begins flipping through the blueprints in awe, as if he can’t believe they’re really there in his hands.

“They were still in the room with you where I found you,” Yamamoto replies. “I… I know how important these are to you, so I couldn’t just leave them—”

Gokudera drops the papers and grabs Yamamoto, pulling him into a harsh, desperate kiss. He tastes of chalky medicine and faint cigarette smoke, but Yamamoto has been craving this for so long that he simply doesn’t care. All the worry and doubt and concerns for Gokudera—for Gokudera’s psychological and physical health, for their relationship, for _everything_ —are leeching slowly out of the tight coil in his stomach through the contact between their lips.

But Yamamoto can’t help but notice the way Gokudera tenses and winces into his mouth when they shift closer together, so he breaks away first. Gokudera’s hands are still on his face, cupping his cheeks as he presses his forehead to Yamamoto’s and looks directly into his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers sincerely.

Yamamoto can’t help the grin pulling at his lips—Gokudera rarely expresses his gratitude in words, and it’s the best thing Yamamoto has heard in what feels like a very long time. To him, it feels like suddenly finding a valuable treasure that had been lost for so many years; a huge burden lifts from his shoulders (and he thinks he feels it lifting from Gokudera’s as well), and he relishes the feeling.

 

 

 

 

The feeling doesn’t last long—one week, maybe two, after they return to Tokyo, Yamamoto begins to notice the small, subtle things. Like the way Gokudera sometimes pretends to sleep to cover up his insomnia, or how he flinches every time a door slams nearby. There’s a scowl on Gokudera’s face every time Yamamoto catches him staring at the scarred-over injury on his chin. He drinks a little more often, especially when he thinks Yamamoto isn’t paying attention to the third, fourth, fifth glasses of wine at dinner, or to the rapidly draining bottles of hard liquor in their shared liquor cabinet. But for all intents and purposes, Gokudera seems to be his usual curmudgeonly self; he’s irritable, smokes like a chimney (despite the Vongola head physician’s protests), and still only seems to perk up when the Tenth is present. There’s just something that isn’t quite right, but Yamamoto can’t seem to put his finger on it.

For a while, Yamamoto thinks he might be imagining things.

But the first morning he wakes alone in the apartment, he knows something has changed. It’s just before dawn, and it’s a little cool outside, so Yamamoto changes into a pair of comfortable pants and a zip-up sweatshirt before he heads out to find Gokudera. Instinct tells him to look in Gokudera’s office first, and if he’s not there, then the lab is likely his next best bet.

The office is predictably empty—dark, paperwork piled neatly (but high) in various stacks all over the desk. Yamamoto frowns when he sees several notes written in harshly-scrabbled G-script over the only fairly unoccupied section of desktop. Something is bothering the Right Hand man, and it bothers Yamamoto that he isn’t included in the thought process any longer. Not that he had ever been included in Gokudera’s projects, but the scribbles seem more frantic, almost obsessive.

Unsurprisingly, Gokudera is deep in a stack of paperwork covered in G-script and formulas by the time Yamamoto gets to the lab. Yamamoto feels some measure of relief when he realizes that Gokudera didn’t change his access codes to the lab (yet), and he slips into the dim room quietly and simply observes Gokudera glowering through his glasses at his notes for a few moments. Gokudera’s crutch leans against the wall next to his main desk, and his hair is tied back out of his face and up off his neck with a worn piece of string. The mug of tea sitting next to him on the desk still has steam rising off its surface, so it seems as though Gokudera hasn’t been there long.

Yamamoto announces his presence with a loud intake of breath, causing Gokudera to start before craning his neck and shooting a glare over his shoulder.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were sleeping,” he says flatly.

With a smile, Yamamoto replies, “I guess I’ve made a habit of rising when you do.”

Gokudera’s scowl deepens (he’s thinking hard about something), and for a few moments he doesn’t respond. But after a beat, he turns back to his notes and waves a hand irritably in Yamamoto’s direction.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he growls. “So you can stop hovering like a mother hen and go back to sleep. Or whatever it is you’re planning on doing this early in the morning.”

Yamamoto snorts mirthlessly, even though the smile’s still stretching across his lips. “You forgot your pain meds this morning,” he says, holding out the prescription pills in a small bag. When Gokudera’s shoulders stiffen, he adds, “But if you don’t want me to remind you about them, I can always leave them on the kitchen counter.”

A grunt of affirmation is all the response he gets, and he sighs, turning to leave. He knows that Gokudera’s still fragile from his time spent as a captive of the Russians (and from the betrayal leading to his capture), but it still hurts that Gokudera is giving him the cold shoulder. Yamamoto can’t help but feel a little angry at how Gokudera addresses him so flippantly.

Maybe it’s because it’s a ridiculous hour of the morning, or maybe it’s because Yamamoto’s tired and hasn’t really rested well in far too long, but Yamamoto’s having trouble ignoring the growing bubble of frustration building in his chest.

“Maybe next time you don’t want company, you should change your access codes,” Yamamoto says crisply as he turns to leave. It’s a barb, and he knows that it’s likely to start a fight, but even his own (once seemingly infinite) reserve of patience is running dangerously low.

He hears Gokudera’s chair scrape against the floor as he stands abruptly, catching his balance precariously on the back of the chair. “Maybe I will, you overbearing oaf,” he snaps.

“ _Overbearing_?” A bark of incredulous, harsh laughter scrapes against Yamamoto’s throat as it leaves his lungs. “ _Hah!_ If that’s how you think of it, then I’ll keep that thought in mind the next time you’re at death’s door.”

He doesn’t mean it—but it’s out of his mouth before he can even think far enough ahead to keep himself from saying stupid things like that. Before Gokudera has a chance to reply, Yamamoto storms out of the lab and viciously slams the door behind him.

Gokudera doesn’t return until late that night—until after Yamamoto’s already in bed (but not asleep). He doesn’t even come into the shared bedroom, and sleeps on the couch.

Yamamoto is so frustrated that he doesn’t sleep at all that night.

 

 

 

 

Yamamoto doesn’t think he can call the brief exchange in the lab a fight, but it sure seems to him like they’re in one after several days of facing (and doling out) the silent treatment. Gokudera barely even acknowledges him when they do actually see each other—Yamamoto doesn’t once hear even one of his usual insulting nicknames that Gokudera tends to use for him when he’s annoyed.

Even though he doesn’t talk to Gokudera, Yamamoto knows that most of Gokudera’s time is spent in the lab, working furiously on those goddamned projects of his. The only breaks Gokudera takes from poring over the blueprints are reserved for the necessities: bathroom, food, sleep (if any), and a daily check-in with Tsuna. Vindictively, Yamamoto sometimes catches himself wishing that he hadn’t given the stolen blueprints back to Gokudera so quickly. But he knows it’s a wish that stems out of pure jealousy and frustration; there’s a part of him that knows the projects Gokudera is working on are indeed important. (He really wishes he knew _why_ they are so important, but he’s long since learned how to trust Gokudera’s instincts on these kinds of things).

The uncomfortable silent game has been going on between them for an entire week when Tsuna calls Yamamoto into his office one morning. They haven’t really had a chance to talk much since Yamamoto brought Gokudera back from Italy, and Yamamoto finds it a relief to be able to finally speak with one of his best friends.

But when he enters Tsuna’s office, all hopes of having a conversation as friends fades the moment Yamamoto sees the serious expression on Tsuna’s face.

“Yamamoto-kun,” Tsuna says apologetically. He extends a black envelope, clutched tightly between ring-adorned fingers. “I… I’m sorry to have to ask you to do this, but there’s no one else who can. I just need you to talk to someone.”

Yamamoto regards the black envelope stonily at first, but he knows that Tsuna would never ask him to leave with things in such a sour state between him and Gokudera if there wasn’t a good reason. His lips tighten to a thin line before twitching up at the corners in a mirthless smile.

“Where am I going?” he asks, taking the envelope from Tsuna.

“Not far,” Tsuna says. “Just outside Osaka. I booked your train tickets for tomorrow afternoon.”

Yamamoto looks down at the envelope in his hands. He flips it open to find what looks like a mug shot of an unfamiliar man, along with several other semi-blurred snapshots and a stack of informational paperwork. Nothing out of the ordinary, though he knows has a decent amount of reading to do before he leaves.

“He doesn’t know I’m coming,” he says, when he realizes there isn’t a set meeting time.

Tsuna smiles sadly. “I’m afraid he doesn’t—we’re not sure he would stay where he was if he knew you were on your way.”

 _Ah, so that’s how it is._ Yamamoto nods as he snaps the envelope shut and holds it up. “All of the instructions are in here?”

Tsuna inclines his head in affirmation before he says (carefully), “If something should go awry, I will trust your judgment on the matter.”

“Understood,” Yamamoto replies.

He turns to leave, but stops when Tsuna grabs his wrist and looks him directly in the eyes, though he seems to be hesitating on what he wants to say. “I wish there was something more I could do to help,” he finally says after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Yamamoto blinks, but then it occurs to him that Tsuna isn’t talking about the black envelope anymore. With a snort, he replies, “So do I, Tsuna. So do I.”

 

 

 

 

The silent game ends the next morning as Yamamoto places the last folded item into his suitcase and zips it up. He turns to find Gokudera watching him intently, a frown creasing his forehead as he watches.

“Where are you going?” Gokudera asks (and if Yamamoto didn’t know Gokudera better, he would be _infuriated_ because Gokudera’s acting like nothing happened between them the last two weeks).

“Quick trip to Osaka on Tsuna’s request. I’ll be back in a few days.” Yamamoto pulls the suitcase off the bed and sets it on its wheels on the floor.

Gokudera crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe, eying the black envelope sitting on the comforter with a suspicious glare. “What sort of request?”

“Just business talk,” Yamamoto replies easily. He looks back over his shoulder at Gokudera with a challenging smirk. “What, are you curious?”

“Hah!” Gokudera turns away and waves dismissively over his shoulder, limping slightly as he walks away. (He’s stubbornly refusing to use the crutch, despite the physician’s insistence that it’s still necessary. Yamamoto doesn’t say anything about it, though.) “So long as you don’t make the Tenth look stupid, I don’t care.”

With a small snort of laughter, Yamamoto moves to the bathroom to finish getting ready to leave. Teeth brushed, face washed, and hair combed, he straightens his tie in the mirror and pulls on the bullet-resistant blazer before grabbing his suitcase and walking towards the door of the apartment.

Slender fingers close around the wrist toting the suitcase, and Yamamoto stops, eyes widening. Turning in surprise, he sees Gokudera standing with his head down, hair obscuring his eyes as he holds onto Yamamoto’s wrist with a shaking hand. It’s the first physical contact they’ve had in over a week; Yamamoto has all the patience in the world as he waits for Gokudera to speak.

“I…” he begins, but stops himself with a flinch.

Yamamoto looks past Gokudera at the ticking clock on the wall, clenching his teeth. He has all the patience in the world, but bullet trains don’t run on patience, and he’s going to miss his ride if he doesn’t leave soon. With a smile, he fully turns to face Gokudera and places his free hand on Gokudera’s wrist. Gokudera peers up uncertainly at him through stringy, messy bangs.

“We’ll talk when I return,” Yamamoto says gently, still smiling. “I promise.”

Gokudera snorts softly with a half-smile so twisted, it almost looks like a grimace. He releases his tight grip on Yamamoto’s wrist and finally looks Yamamoto directly in the eyes.

“Watch your back. Don’t do anything stupid,” he says.

“Haha, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Yamamoto replies. On an impulse—he knows this has about a fifty percent chance of ruining the moment, but he doesn’t care—he leans forward and presses his lips to Gokudera’s forehead.

Gokudera doesn’t retreat, or even flinch, and Yamamoto smiles against his skin (it feels like a lifetime since he’s been able to do even this much, and it feels so good he almost stays—almost). He feels a thrill of victory at knowing that the silent game is ending the moment he gets home, and hope swells in his chest as he takes a step back from Gokudera.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises.

 

 

 

 

The man—who introduced himself simply as ‘Takeda’—is thinner, paler and more haggard-looking than his picture by the time Yamamoto corners him in his office. The office is in the back of a manufacturing plant that—despite its dingy appearance—is currently producing top-of-the-line technology that deals with the conduction of dying will flames and their relation to box weapons.

Takeda’s hands visibly shake as he reaches for a cigar, lights it, and then leans back into his chair and takes a slow, long drag. Smoke curls from the end of the bright red tip of the cigar once he holds it away from his face.

“So what you’re implying, Vongola Rain, is that we’ve been spinning deals with your enemies under the table—and thereby breaking our contract?” Takeda’s tone belies exhaustion as he speaks; more cigar smoke leaks from between his lips with each word. “That’s a pretty hefty accusation.”

Yamamoto raises an eyebrow, keeping his sword blade steady as the tip presses against the edge of Takeda’s desk. “Perhaps I did not phrase my question adequately,” he says. “I simply inquired after your more recent business dealings with the Italian gentleman who was here the other day.”

“Oh no, I understand what you’re saying.” Takeda takes another drag on the cigar and waves it vaguely in Yamamoto’s direction. “You suits all speak the same way, using clever words to disguise what you really mean, but I can see right through all the farce you’re putting up.” He sighs and takes a quick drag, exhaling through his nose like an old, wise dragon. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Vongola; I’m simply a businessman who makes business deals with good prospective clients. I know that our products tend to be more dangerous in nature, and I can understand why you would be concerned, especially after you’ve been so… generous as a business partner. However, there isn’t a single deal anywhere—under the table, over the table, wherever—that I haven’t run past your friend that was here last week.”

At that, Yamamoto tilts his head to the side. The file he’d read through hadn’t said anything about another Vongola representative visiting at all, not even in the last month. Alarm bells are sounding off in the back of Yamamoto’s mind when he realizes that there are only two options in this case: the second could be the signal of the future they all fear will happen, no matter what kinds of precautions they take. (Unless Gokudera has been secretly contracting private work through this same company in relation to his projects; in that case, Yamamoto will need to have serious words with the Storm Guardian in Tsuna’s presence.)

With a frown, Yamamoto says, “I haven’t been informed of such contact. What is the name of the man you spoke with last week?”

A part of him fears that the answer will be Byakuran, but he doesn’t want to let his mind travel down that route just yet.

“Some Italian gentleman,” Takeda says, waving his cigar about again. Yamamoto’s heart suddenly hammers so loudly against his ribcage that he can hear it. So it isn’t Byakuran, then. But if his suspicions prove correct, the answer could be just as grievous. “He was dressed in a nice suit, just like yours. What was his name…”

“Giacomo?” Yamamoto supplies.

Takeda stabs his cigar in Yamamoto’s direction. “Yes! That was his name—Giacomo. He said he would be back some time this next week or so to check in on our progress. That’s why I originally thought you were here, though I must say I’m a little astonished at how poorly your… _company_ communicates.”

Yamamoto’s blood turns to ice as his concerns are confirmed. He doesn’t even notice the blatant insult laced into Takeda’s words, because all he can think about is the fact that Giacomo is still alive—and has the gall to return to Vongola territory so blatantly.

It takes a second for Yamamoto to understand the real reason behind the fact that Tsuna sent him on this mission to speak with Takeda. _Tsuna knew that Giacomo has something to do with this business deal getting derailed_ , Yamamoto realizes. The conversation in Tsuna’s office comes to mind, and it’s then that Yamamoto knows he has Tsuna’s permission and blessing to take the matter of Giacomo’s betrayal into his own hands.

_Tsuna, you’ve done more than enough. Thank you._

The smile that crosses his lips is feral—the only indication of his expression is the way in which Takeda’s skin bleaches from pale to porcelain as all these thoughts are processing in Yamamoto’s mind. Takeda flinches and sinks even lower into his plush chair when Yamamoto’s intense eyes meet his.

“You said this Giacomo fellow was in here last week, did you not?” Yamamoto asks (still smiling), voice low and dangerous. “And that he will be back here within the week?”

“Y-Yes, I believe I did,” Takeda says shakily. “He is an associate of yours, is he not?”

Yamamoto’s grin widens as he raises his blade.

It’s the last thing Takeda ever sees.

 

 

 

 

_“Hello? Yamamoto-kun?”_

“I’ll be here for another week,” Yamamoto says flatly over the phone. “Something came up; I have a mess to clean up.”

A pause, and then a knowing, _“Just be careful.”_

Yamamoto clicks his phone shut with one hand and drops it in his blazer pocket. His other hand flicks blood free from his glowing blue blade, which he wipes on Takeda’s jacket before sliding it back into the sheath. Instead of Takeda lying dead on the floor at his feet, all he can see is Giacomo’s face, twisted and agonized in death.

**_to be continued..._ **

**Author's Note:**

> RECOMMENDED LISTENING (part 2):  
> ♪ [fallin' down](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNTZj4q8JF4) { chris brown }


End file.
